The Return
by Daydream Believing
Summary: The President is lithely making his way up the stairs, the crown balanced between his hands. I wince as he places it on my head. It's heavy and chafes my ears.  No, I don't own the Hunger Games, sadly.
1. Chapter 1

I've never written a fanfiction before, so let me know if it's any good. :)

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I screw up my eyes as the spotlight hits me; I'm quite glad really that the intense light blocks out the crowd who I know are sitting, watching me intently, and I cannot stand it. I'm relieved when someone takes my arm and directs me over to the chair. The chair where I am supposed to watch my fellow tributes die, as if seeing it once hadn't been enough. My fingernails dig tightly into the arms of the chair as I try to block out the hysterical applause of my strange audience. People with whiskers, and neon yellow skin. People with enlarged eyes and extra limbs. These are the people who will watch me as I try to avoid watching the footage of my Games. While the crazed cheering of the Capitol citizens is making me feel uncomfortable, I feel strangely grateful to them, because the longer they cheer, the more time I have before the screen starts to show the images that I am trying so desperately to block from my mind.

Unfortunately, Flickerman obviously decides that he has had enough after about ten minutes of this, and so he gestures to someone unseen, and lilting music begins to play. This shuts the audience up because, of course, they don't want to miss a single second of my winning montage.

It starts with my reaping. I can still remember images from that day. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees as everyone before the stage is silent. The mist in my head that tries to obscure the fact that I have just heard my name being called. The sympathetic glances that the crowd gives me. And it's strange to watch these things being replayed in front of me, without feeling any of the emotion that had been attached to them the first time round. The music increases in pace, and then we are watching the opening ceremony. I try not to let myself watch too closely because all the faces on the screen, the faces of children, don't exist anymore. But of course my eyes are drawn in, and I register the serene expression of the girl from District One, Fleur, who survived right until the end, and who could easily be sitting here in this seat right now if she hadn't made that one mistake. I also take in the blind boy from District Six, and my heart aches for him again as I see his head reel wildly around. I watch as my chariot rides into shot. My face might be made up, but it can't obscure the terror I was feeling – my eyes are wide and afraid. And I can see my fingers trembling as I raise my hand to wave. It's odd, but so much of that night was a blur and it seems to me that I'm experiencing it all for the first time. Finally I watch as the face of my ally appears on the screen and I have to turn away.

After this, the video becomes jerky and confusing. One moment I am watching my training score appear on the screen – a 6, I bet it wasn't even considered that I might win – and then the fighting at the Cornucopia begins. There's no footage of me here: I'm probably the worst victor ever to try and make an interesting video about. Because I had pelted away from the golden horn the moment the gong went off. I had known there was no way I could survive if I had been caught up in the bloodbath, and even the allure of supplies couldn't tempt me in. I wince as knives flash and spears twirl, and tributes collapse left, right and centre. So many of them go down. Before being in the arena I never really understood how fragile we are, how easy it is to die, but now I see. It's being illustrated on the screen before my eyes. One tribute falls with a knife protruding from his back, while one of the Careers smashes his district partner's face against a rock. Here, the footage whirls away from the bloodbath and I am on the screen. Still running and soaked in sweat, my breath is coming in harsh gasps and I can barely move. I feel the pain of exhaustion rush through me as I watch the screen because while I've forgotten details of the reaping and the training, every moment and every pain of the arena remains fresh in my mind.

The footage continues, flicking between the career tributes who are putting on a show for the audience by hunting down the others, and fighting amongst themselves, and me – being uninteresting and searching desperately for food. At this point in the Games I was hungry every single second, no matter how much I managed to consume. Four days into the Games and I was starving hungry, alone and without a single weapon. It's a miracle that I'm sitting here now, when I was such a useless tribute. I'm sure that no one was betting on me.

In fact, the footage of me doesn't seem to interest the audience until it shows Kloe, the female tribute from District 12, and I making an alliance. She'd scared me out of my wits when she'd first stumbled in through the jagged entrance of the cave where I had been hiding. I'd spotted the knife at her belt, and started backing away because I had nothing. Absolutely nothing with which I could've defended myself. So, I had blurted out something about being allies, and then crossed my fingers. Kloe had already collapsed by this point.

It had been much easier with Kloe. Not only because it meant I'd finally had my hands on a weapon – Kloe had given me her spare knife which had surprised the hell out of me – but also because the quiet of the arena had been driving me crazy. We worked well together, fought other tributes, made our way to the cornucopia and filched some of the Careers' supplies, and despite the oppressive atmosphere of the arena, I found myself actually liking Kloe. It was her death that had pushed me over the edge. We were down to three tributes.

It's so easy to be noble about the Games, and to tell yourself that you'd rather die than have to kill innocent children. But it's so different once you're inside, and once you witness the sadistic nature of your fellow tributes. Because honestly, after Kloe died, there wasn't anyone left who deserved to win, to be safe. And that revelation had been what changed me.

I can't watch the screen. I have to look away because the moment where I snapped is coming, and I can't bear it. It was bad enough living through it – feeling a fierce anger swell within me, and hating everyone and everything around me – and I don't want to see it how everyone else saw it. Because I'm scared of the way I'll appear.

I close my eyes, but that doesn't affect my hearing. I hear a flick, and the whoosh of air that means my opponents are in the net. I screw up my eyes against their screams. Then I hear the swish of the knife.

The gong goes off, bringing me back to my sense and I open my eyes. The screen is now showing my headshot. The President is lithely making his way up the stairs, the crown balanced between his hands. I wince as he places it on my head. It's heavy and chafes my ears, and I want nothing more than to just rip it off my head. I clench my fists to stop myself.

"Ladies and Gentleman. I give you your 69th Hunger Games Champion. Ryla Storne."

I feel sick.


	2. Chapter 2

The moment I'm off the stage I tug the crown off my head, wincing as it pulls at my hair. But my mentor snaps at me to "Put the bloody thing back on your head." I cannot stand him: I'm sure me winning was more of a shock for him that it was anyone else, because he had called me weak and pathetic at least five times a day during my training, and when I had received my six he had actually tried to lob a bowl at my head. Our relationship certainly hasn't changed now that I've proved him wrong, if anything my winning has just made him even angrier. So I choose to ignore his comment and leave the crown hanging loosely from my fingertips.

By the time we've made it back into the prep room, I am desperate to rip my dres off. The corset is too tight, and digging into my ribs, constricting my breathing, which is already coming in strange gasps. I hook my fingers under the top of the dress and try to pull it away from my body. "Stop it," Spark, my mentor hisses, tugging my fingers away from the material. My prep team whirl around me, removing my make up with gentle hands, but I want to scream at them. I don't care about the damn make up, just take the dress off. I'm wrenching at it urgently because I swear it's cutting off my circulation. Cleo finally notices that something is bothering me – she's not exactly the most observant of stylists – and she waves her hands for prep team to stop what they're doing. "Can you take it off?" I practically gasp at her and glance down at the dress. The patterns of green sequins reflect my pasty cheeks and the expression I then notice on Cleo's face is the closest I have ever seen her look to being concerned. "But, I made sure to loosen it off." I'll never understand their strange capital fashion, where they insist on everything being held so tightly together than it's actually painful, and it is true, I had demanded that I wanted it looser, because there had been no way that I was going to sit for 3 hours in a dress that would most likely make me pass out.

The dress is finally off me, and I sink into the chair Cleo slides in my direction, resting my head back. "I need to do the fitting for your dress for tomorrow," Cleo says waspishly, "so don't sit down for too long." I ignore her, and close my eyes. Tomorrow is the interview, and no matter how bad it was to watch my time in the arena, I am aware that it will be ten times worse to actually have to talk about it. To have to explain what was going through my head as time passed in the arena. I don't want people to judge me, not that I care about the viewers in the capital, because the more blood thirsty I appear, the better their viewing experience will probably be, but what about the people back home? What will my family, and my friends think about what I did? I wonder if they will tell themselves that I was just playing the game, or whether they'll feel that what I did was completely irredeemable. Even I haven't worked that out quite yet, and I keep my fingers crossed that they have yet to judge me. But they will be shocked, this much I know. Because I saw the pain in my mum's face as she hugged me, and I had known that she believed that she would never see me again. I had tried to avoid the eyes of my friends as I said goodbye, because we had all known that my chances of survival were next to nothing.

"Flo," snaps Cleo, the impatience in her voice clear, "I need to fit your dress. In case you decide this one is too tight as well." I guess I hurt her feelings by suggesting that her dress wasn't the be all and end all of design masterpieces when I had wanted it altered. _Tough, _I think, I wasn't going to risk falling unconscious just to spare your feelings.

The rest of that day passes slowly and I choose to hide myself away from my team, burying my head in my pillow. At one point, I think I can hear people knocking at my door, but I made sure to lock it earlier and so I just press my hands over my ears until they've gone away. It's much easier lying there, humming tunelessly to avoid thinking, than having to face the others, and let them give me tips on how I should be presenting myself at the interview. I just want to be myself; I've had enough of acting in these games. '_Play_ _at being weak and innocent when you reach the capitol,' 'Try and at least pretend you're proficient during training,' 'I want you to be eccentric and cheeky during the interview.' _I feel like who I used to be has slipped away from me, because I've had to play so many different roles these past few weeks. It's probably what kept me alive, but I still resent being changed. At the Reaping I had told myself that at least if I died because I was weak and incapable, at least I would die as myself. But even that luxury has been taken from me now, because I'll never be myself again.

That night I try and fight sleep for as long as I possibly can. I keep ordering food, because I think if I can distract myself with food then I won't be able to fall asleep. Then I start ordering the most sugary foods I can think of, because maybe all that sugar in my system will keep me wired and stop me from closing my eyes. My plan actually works surprisingly well for a while, but at some point early in the morning, I lose the battle to keep my eyes open and I drift into unconsciousness.

_The rocks loom overhead. Everywhere I look is flat stone that is impossible to scale. There are deep shadowy holes metres above me that might provide a safe refuge, but I have no way of reaching them. My body wants to give up, exhaustion ripples through me and threatens to bring me to my knees. This is just a memory from the arena, and I force myself not to be afraid because I know how it ends. But then I feel something in my hands. It weighs my arm down, and I'm so scared to look down because I know what it will be. Knife. I see their faces in front of my eyes, hear their screams as they realise what's happening. See the hollow look in their eyes as they realise they're about to die. And my arm swings the knife._

I wrench myself awake before I can see them die, and I clutch my fingers to my mouth to stop the scream from erupting. My whole body is drenched in sweat, and mechanically I stand up, and drag my aching limbs into the shower. I soak my body in icily cold water, and I refuse to even shut my eyes in case I drift off again.

I'm first up for breakfast the next morning, but the sight of the feast that has been laid out for us turns my stomach and I have to retreat back into my room until I hear the others get up. Spark practically screams my name when he realises that I'm not planning to come out of my room any time soon and I heave myself over to the mirror, because the last thing I want is him to start pounding on my door. He sounds as if he's in a foul enough mood already. I sigh as I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my skin is pale and the dark circles under my eyes have grown even further. The prep team are going to be horrified when they see me and I can't help but feel a slight pleasure as I think that my horribly sleepless night has at least served the purpose of annoying them.

I'm right, because when I turn up at breakfast Cleo almost faints at the sight of me. "Didn't you get any sleep at all last night?" I just shrug, and adopt a blank stare that I know is bound to annoy her even more. "You have your interview in less than four hours, and I'm not a bloody miracle worker." I couldn't care less if the whole of the Capitol saw me for the mess that I really am, but of course, seeing their new champion with huge bags under her eyes wouldn't exactly be a great advertisement for the Games. I can only hope that my outfit won't have high heels, because I can barely lift one foot in front of the other, so there's no way I'll be able to even move in heels.

I sit still while I'm prodded and poked by the team. They've had to call in another recruit in desperation, and yet still I can see them panicking as they swirl powder onto my cheeks and try and make me look human again. There's only about twenty minutes left to go until the interview when they finally stop, and shrug at each other. It's obviously not their most perfect work, but it'll clearly have to do, because I still have to get changed and make it to the interview studio. I barely even notice as they slip the dress over my head I just register that it's green, of course. Thankfully, Cleo presents me with a pair of brown, soft suede boots that fit cosily onto my feet and I can't help but flash her a grateful smile that she hasn't tried to force me into heels, but she just glares back and propels me towards the door.

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**Any reviews would be very appreciated :)**


	3. Chapter 3

The applause as I step onto the small stage to greet Caesar is deafening, and makes me want to press my hands to my ears. I can hear them chanting my name and I watch stoically as they waft kisses in my direction. I wonder how watching children getting murdered counts as good television viewing for them. Or why a person who killed others is greeted with cheers from a Capitol audience. But before I can consider these thoughts further, I notice that Caesar has his hand outstretched and is waiting for me to shake it. I suppress a sigh and extend my hand. His palm feels smooth and his grip is strong, whereas my hands are already slick with sweat. Partly, I suppose, due to the strong lighting, but more caused by the nerves that are fizzing deep within me.

I force myself to push them down inside me and I take my seat on the stage. The chair is stiff and uncomfortable: the cushion can't quite mask the ridges on the back and they dig painfully into my spine. I quite like the pain though; it keeps me feeling lucid. Flickerman turns to me with an excited smile on his face, and even though I've seen it before, his lime green hair and make-up still give me a slight shock. No one at home would dream of looking like this willingly. But then again all anyone at home wants to do is blend in, whereas in the Capitol the citizens are desperate to stand out from the crowd. "So, Ryla," he begins, in a musical tone, "How does it feel to be the 69th champion of the Hunger Games?"

I wonder vaguely how I should answer this, and in the end I settle for the word, "Strange."

He tips his head back and laughs raucously – I had no idea I could be so amusing – and then says, "Come on, Ryla. I want to know how it really feels to win."

How it really feels to win? Why don't you have a go in the arena then? I think bitterly, before forcing my lips to turn upwards. "How it feels..." I press my index finger to my chin and pretend to think for a few moments. The audience groan as I keep them in suspense. "It's not something I can describe, because I suppose it hasn't really sunk in yet. At the moment, I'm just happy to be alive." There, that's the best I can do without outright lying. Thankfully it seems to keep him satisfied for now.

"With a six, I'm betting that no one ever really considered you as a serious competitor in these games. Do you have anything to say to them now?"

I shrug slightly, "Everyone knows how unpredictable the Hunger Games can be."

"Right," he looks slightly put out. I'm guessing he was expecting a slightly more emotional answer. But these past few weeks have drained all the emotion out of my body and so it's hard to work up any interesting response to his question.

"But I'm guessing you feel pretty proud of yourself." I almost want to hit him when he says this, because this is the one thing I cannot answer truthfully and keep the audience happy at the same time.

"Mmm, well I guess I did prove people wrong."

"Exactly!" Caesar exclaims loudly, "I bet no one predicted that a skinny little 17 year old like you would take the crown." I bristle in indignation about the fact that I've been referred to as a 'skinny little 17 year old.' I guess that's all I am, really, but there's no need for him to rub it in.

He obviously gets bored of this line of questioning, and so he moves on to ask me about my time in the arena. He starts off with pretty basic subjects, such as how hard it had been to find food and water and demands to know if I'd had a strategy early on in the Games. Then, he wants to get my opinions on the arena, "So, as we all know, the arena this year was a complex system of caves. Ryla, was it hard finding your way around? There were certainly plenty of tributes who got lost." The audience laughs at this, and I try very hard to stop myself from clenching my fists.

"Well, it was definitely confusing. I lost my way a couple of times. But then again, it wasn't like I was really trying to get anywhere specific, so I wasn't technically lost." Cue another chuckle from the audience. "It was a bit of a shock when we first got into the arena."

"Were you scared? Because I guess all you could see was a vast maze of caves. What was your plan when you realised where you were?"

A lot of questions, and I'm not really sure how to answer them. He seems to be under the belief that I was operating under some ingenious strategy right from the beginning. "Yeah, I was scared," _the caves were the least of my problems_, I can't help thinking. I had been more terrified of the other tributes than the layout of the arena. "I guess I was too scared to think of a plan. I just panicked and grabbed any supplies within my reach. Then I ran." This won't interest the audience at all, because they saw all this on their screens. Obviously they felt it was a plan of some kind. This idea makes me want to laugh – fear had turned my brains to mush by this point, and I had barely even been capable of running, let alone been able to come up with a game plan.

"So, you just wanted to get away from the other tributes? Give yourself a chance to recuperate and plan your next move?"

"Umm," I falter at this, "I suppose."

At this point Caesar decides that he wants to start questioning me about the injuries I had sustained in the arena. He starts off mildly, with the bruises and the grazes that came from climbing. Then he moves onto the acid burns I had received when the Gamemakers had decided I was being too dull to hold the audience's interest. And finally of course, the bruises round my neck, and my first kill. It's strange really, but I hear myself describing the pain with a dull voice. Almost as if my words weren't conjuring up the pain afresh in my mind.

"But things didn't really start happening for you until you made your alliance with Kloe. Tell me, how did it feel to have an ally to help you out in the arena?" He looks at me inquisitively, leaning forward so that I am tempted to lean away from him.

I dig my nails into the palms of my hand; the pain keeps the memories from overwhelming me, and I take a deep breath before saying, "It was easier, having an ally. It meant you could sleep without being scared someone would find you whilst you were unconscious. It meant that you had someone to talk to." I find it's much easier to talk in the second person, because I feel more detached from what I'm saying. I can keep my emotions hidden from the audience by pretending I'm not really talking about myself.

"Right, and you and Kloe certainly seemed to get along well with each other." It's not a question, but the way he pauses after he's said it makes me realise that he wants me to say something. I know this is my chance to honour the help that Kloe gave me in the arena. I should show her district that I'll never forget her and that her memory will live on. I should, but I can't.

"Yeah, I suppose we did." This is all I say, and so Caesar makes a small motion with his finger to indicate that I need to keep talking. But I can't talk about my fleeting friendship with Kloe, especially not in front of the scrutinising Capitol audience. "I didn't have a plan before I allied with Kloe. Because I didn't think there was any point. But in an alliance I had more hope, I guess."

"More hope that you might actually win?"

I nod my head, "Exactly. And so we made a plan."

"You most certainly did," Caesar says, his eyes gleaming with excitement, "You planned to steal supplies from your other tributes!" This is greeted with a cheer from the audience, and the moment of applause gives me a chance to regain control over my emotions. Eventually Caesar makes shushing motions with his hand, and they quieten down. "Your plan was fairly simple, yet overwhelmingly effective."

I shrug again, "The Careers were stupid. If you fall asleep with no one on watch then you can expect your supplies to get stolen," I say heavily, my voice full of contempt. I still can't believe they had been dense enough to leave no one on watch. But then, as Kloe had said, it had probably been more down to arrogance than stupidity. I doubted they had expected that anyone would dare to cross them. We had been in and then out of their camp in a matter of minutes, arms laden down with their supplies. I don't think they'd ever suspected me and Kloe. They had probably assumed it was the bulky pair of tributes from District 10.

"Indeed. And that just goes to show that brains often triumph over brawn. Especially where the Hunger Games is concerned." The audience begin their crazed cheering and chanting again, and I have to work hard to suppress an eye roll. Everything excites these guys.

"Now, the number of tributes was thinning out by this time. Both the Career group and you and Kloe had taken most of the others out of the running." Actually, I had been so ineffective with my knife that none of the deaths had been down to me. Kloe had been surprisingly strong and efficient with a blade. By the time it was just us and the two remaining careers left I had been certain that Kloe was going to take the crown. Caesar suddenly leans towards me, and a strange hush falls across the audience. They can tell what he'll ask next, and so can I. My limbs tighten and my eyes flicker wildly around, because I desperately want a way out. I do not want to answer his next question.

Caesar's eyes show no sadness as he says quietly, "Now, shall we talk about Kloe's death?"

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**Review please. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

_**I'm really sorry that this is quite depressing, but I don't think there's any way I can make it upbeat!**_

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**__Let's not, _I think, slightly desperately as Caesar watches me. The spotlight is the only thing that keeps me in my chair. If I didn't know that everyone in the whole of Panem was watching me, I would be off the stage in a flash. Because I do not want to talk about Kloe.

Caesar turns to the audience, "Now, we all remember the moment, don't we?" The audience whoop and cheer while I resist the urge to shut my eyes tightly and pretend that this isn't happening. "So, Candy from 1 was hunting you?"

_Why is this a question? _I'm panicking. "Yes..." I have no idea what he wants me to say. But from the way he's looking expectantly at me, my answer obviously wasn't enough for him. "Yeah, and she was strong and fast. So we knew that we were in trouble." I can still remember how I tried to make every footstep softer than the last because each step seemed deafeningly loud and Kloe kept glancing sideways at me, her eyes full of terror. That's when I had known that we were really in trouble, because Kloe had been completely fearless since we'd entered the arena. If she was scared then we were doomed.

"You decided to split up?"

I nod my head slowly, giving myself time to calm down, "She couldn't follow both of us and we'd both rather that the other won, rather than another Career victor."

"So, you were prepared to die to let Kloe live, and the other way around?"

"I guess."If he's expecting more, he can go to hell.

"And Candy picked Kloe to keep trailing."

She had picked Kloe. I remember I had kept walking, urgently scanning the ground to keep an eye out for anything that might make a sound if I stepped on it. The caves had been an awful place to try and hide from someone, because you had never known whether the cave you picked would lead somewhere else, or if it would simply be a dead end. This had been Kloe's mistake. All she'd done was pick the wrong cave to creep down, and it had meant the end of her life.

"You ran when you heard her screaming? Weren't you worried that you might get killed as well?"

Strangely enough, this thought hadn't even crossed my mind. All I was thinking was that I had abandoned her and that I couldn't just leave her to the mercy of whoever was making her scream like that. But her screams turned into echoes, bouncing off every wall and leaving me utterly confused about which way to turn. I had darted off in one direction, only to bang into a wall, and then I had twisted back around and run the opposite way.

Then the canon had gone off. That had been it, as far as I had been concerned. Kloe was almost certainly dead because I had known she wouldn't be strong enough to fight off one of the Careers. I was left in an arena with two Career tributes, both of whom seemed to be in fairly prime condition. No injuries for the Capitol's favourites. No, that wouldn't do. I, however, had been covered in cuts, scrapes, burns and bruises. My neck throbbed with pain from when that sadistic creep from 5 had tried to strangle me.

Sitting on this stage, I feel miles away from those memories. I can't even believe that just a few days ago I had given up hope and was preparing to die at the hands of the Careers.

I notice that Caesar is watching me, and realise that I still haven't answered his last question. "I wasn't worried. I wasn't really even thinking. I just wanted to reach Kloe."

He nods and I almost see a flicker of sympathy in his eyes but then it's gone. "When the canon went off, did you know instantly that Flo had been killed?"

"Yes," I say bluntly, "I knew she would've had no chance against them."

I had sat there anyway, my eyes trained on the roof of the main cave, hoping desperately that her face wouldn't appear. But it did anyway. I remember waiting for the tears to start. Kloe and I had grown close and I had expected her death to evoke some sadness within me. But instead there was only anger. Fury that burned within me and forced me not to give up. It had gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. It forced me to make a plan.

"When did you decide you wanted to keep fighting? Because honestly, I thought you'd given up when you heard that canon go off."

"Something just clicked," my voice sounds hollow, "and I knew that if I did nothing and let one of them win, then her death would have been validated. No one would have been punished for it."

"And that's when you decided to take revenge."

"And that's when I decided to take revenge." The idea of revenge had been all that kept me going. I needed someone to pay for what they had done to her. Kloe, a fifteen year old girl from District 12 was dead for no reason I could understand.

But vengeance is ugly and when I had swung that knife I had killed three people, rather than just two.

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I sit alone in my room after the interview, watching the clock tick away the time until the train will be arriving. Anxiety gnaws at my stomach, making my whole body curl up nervously. I have no idea how I will be greeted when I arrive home. Sure, the district as a whole will be thrilled. We don't often get victors – I think there are 4 left alive. Well, 5 now I suppose. But they're not exactly a great advert for living the life of a victor. None of them have families and most of them are so twisted that people glance the other way and pretend they don't see them when they walk down the street. I have to admit, I always used to do the same thing because their hunched shoulders and tired faces are a constant reminder of the destruction that the Hunger Games leaves in its wake.

I cannot predict the reactions of my family and friends. Part of me wishes that they would just be so relieved to see me back home that the memory of what I did in the arena will be wiped from their minds. But I doubt it.

There's a jaunty knock on my door, and a voice chirps out, "It's time to get on the train." It's Silva, my escort. She's so ditsy that I'm surprised she even noticed what the time was. I heave myself to my feet and slide the door open. Silva beams at me, and claps her hands together. "Excited about going home?"

"Yep." I try and inject some kind of enthusiasm into my voice, and I think that Silva buys it. She takes my hand and begins dragging me towards the elevator, despite the fact I am actually capable of walking. She jabs her fingers against the buttons and then we are whizzing down to ground level.

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Once we get onto the train Silva practically shoves me into my room. I really don't appreciate this and am about to tell her, when she suddenly slams the door and calls out, "Get dressed for tea!"

I wipe off my make-up from the interview and pull my hair out of its tightly coiled bun, letting it hang in dark curls just above my shoulders. Then, I pick the most basic outfit out of the wardrobe – a pair of black leggings and a grey tunic – and slip into them.

I look into the mirror, and for the first time in weeks I actually look like me. But I still don't feel like me.

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**_Review please. :) I'd love to know what you think._**


	5. Chapter 5

**Ugh, sorry for the short chapter. It's kind of a filler, I know..!**

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**_The water drips down the side of the cave, and I hear the footsteps coming closer. My whole body trembles because I know I'm in trouble; there's only one way out of this cave and that way is now blocked by another tribute. I cross my fingers, 'please don't let it be a career,' I think desperately. They're always the ones who go out of their way to make a death painful. The footsteps come closer, and my eyes find a shadow on the wall. My heart pounds almost painfully in my chest as I press myself against the wall as if it will somehow make me invisible. He stops dead when he sees me –he's a fairly scrawny, dark haired guy. Someone who, like me, will never have been seen as a serious contender in these Games. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn't following me into this cave. He was probably just searching for a place to hide, like me. I almost think about asking his if he wants to team up, it might give us both a better chance of surviving this. But then the scared look in his eyes morphs into fury and before I know what's happening, his hands have closed round my throat._

_Fire, that's all I can feel. It's all I can see in his eyes too. I try desperately to claw his hands away from my neck, but he's cutting off my air. I panic, air gasping in and out of my mouth, but none of it making it down to my lungs. Spots start forming in my vision. I keep... breathing... but it's not... helping... hands searching... My hands find the rock and before I know what I'm doing I bring it down hard as I can onto his head. Then I pass out._

This is when I wake up, scream ripping from my throat. I can still feel his palms on my throat and I have to touch my neck to stop myself yelling, and reassure myself that I'm safe. I can still see the way he looked when I whacked him with that rock. He wasn't expected some skinny little girl to hit him that hard. But my survival instinct had taken over. That's what happens to you in the arena. Noble ideals gone out the window and you just want to stay alive. You have to keep breathing.

* * *

I must have gone back to sleep at some point during the night because when I wake up the next morning I don't feel quite as shattered as the night before. But my eyes feel heavy and want to droop shut. Silva however, has other ideas. I think it was her pounding on the door like a maniac that had woken me up and I throw a dirty glance in her direction. Of course, this is slightly wasted seeing as she can't actually see it, but it makes me feel slightly better and I push myself out of bed with a groan. "Ryla!" Damn, this is the rough bark of my mentor; Silva has obviously called for back-up. While I might be able to ignore her, Spark is a different story. I don't have the energy to get into another argument with him so I yell out meekly, "Sorry, I overslept. I'll just get ready and I'll be right out."

"You'd better be," he retorts, and I can hear the anger boiling just beneath the surface, "Because we'll be there in two hours."

My stomach does the strange back flip it always does when I think about home. I force myself to push the worry to the back of my mind, and instead focus on finding something to wear. My fingers scrabble through the wardrobe until I finally find something that isn't sickeningly bright and cheery. I slip into the navy dress, and pull on my leggings from the day before. Then I shove my feet into a pair of boots and wander slightly hesitantly down the hall to face Silva and Spark.

My escort and my mentor glare at me as I walk through the door. Silva normally couldn't care less about anything I do, so I'm surprised she's so annoyed with me. But then I guess it would make her look bad if we arrived back late. If she can't even escort me back home on time then she wouldn't be that great at her job. I'm wondering how she actually got the job in the first place when I realise they're both staring at me. I plonk myself into a seat and pull a plate towards me. "You know the plan for today, right?" Silva demands, narrowing her eyebrows at me.

Ugh, why has she got so authoritative all of a sudden? "Sure," I tell her, "Train station; seeing my family and friends." Again, my stomach twists.

"And photos," Silva reminds me.

"Mmhm, and photos. And then it's dinner at the mayor's house with family and friends. Then back home, right?"

I think Silva agrees with what I've said, but I stop listening to her because I've gone back to worrying about what my homecoming will be like.

* * *

I spend the rest of the train journey perched on my bed, biting my nails and trying to prevent myself from thinking. "Ryla!" A voice suddenly echoes through the train, "we've just got into the district." I push myself into an upright position, and suck in a deep breath. _Don't be a wimp, _I tell myself sternly and stumble to the nearest window.

I watch as the rolling hills and wide open fields of District 11 flash into view.

**I'd be very grateful for any reviews. Because I feel quite rejected at the moment :( !**

**Ta.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

The train starts to slow down, and I pull myself away from the windows. For the past 20 minutes as we sped through District 11 my eyes have been searching my home hungrily; my gaze roaming over every contour in the land. The fields bring back memories of tough days; working in the blazing sun all day and my back aching as I wrench more crops from the ground. No, I wouldn't say that these are pleasant memories, but they are memories other than the ones from the arena. My arena memories are all I could see the past few days, whenever I was alone they would play out in front of my eyes. Now that I am home, I have something else to think. And I desperately need these other thoughts to distract me from dwelling on the Games.

I push myself warily behind a corner as the train glides smoothly to a stop, because I know that the train station will be filled with people and I don't want them all scrutinizing me just yet. I watch the crowd through the glass and try and spot the people I recognise. I can see my old teacher from years ago. I had used to tell him lots of lies, desperate to get him to believe one of them and so prove that I was smarter than my teacher. _"Did you know, if you eat carrots then your vision will improve?" _He would always just pat me on the head and flash me patronising smile that let me know I wasn't fooling him. I never managed to beat him once. My eyes continue flicking over the crowd and I spot people I recognise vaguely from school and shopkeepers who have served me in the past. Then I spot my fellow district tribute, Marko's family right at the front of the swarming mass of people. He had only been 13; a tiny little scrap of a boy. He had died in the bloodbath, and I gaze at his family, all of whom are wearing black armbands to show their loss. They're wearing sorrowful expressions too, every single one of them, and pale faces. I'm almost glad when Spark yells at me in frustration and practically starts to drag me off the train, because it means I don't have to look at their desolate faces anymore. I wonder what they'll say to me, because I certainly made no effort to keep their son alive. I feel a twinge of guilt at this thought, but I don't think that I would have been much use anyway.

Spark keeps prodding me in the back, trying to get me to move along the train faster. But my feet don't seem to be cooperating with me, and they don't want to move. The result is that I'm shuffling very slowly down the carriages, and Spark is growing more and more impatient with me. After he pushes me so hard that I nearly fall face first onto the floor I tell myself to stop being stupid. Why is it scarier to go out there and face the people I know, and who will have been supporting me for the past month than it was to be launched into the arena? It's because, and I know this sounds strange, at least in the arena I knew what I was expecting. People were going to try their best to kill me, but here... I just don't know.

We arrive at the door, and I can hear the huge buzz of noise coming from the platform. It's amazing how much confidence one deep breath can give you and I make myself stand up straight to face the crowd. As the door slides open I'm almost blinded by the instantaneous flashing of hundreds of cameras and I have to resist the urge to screw up my eyes because the photographers will be annoyed if I ruin their pictures by pulling a stupid expression. And that will just lead to more photos having to be taken. So I try to smile, because the quicker they are satisfied with their pictures, the faster they will leave me alone. I twist my head, trying to see my family. After all, they should be near the front, in the privileged place reserved for the winning tribute's family. Then I see them – my mum, my dad and Seth, my six year old, puppy-faced brother. My mum is looking around, slightly bemused at the cheering and chanting that's echoing through the station while my dad's eyes meet mine and his faces breaks into a grin. He points in my direction so that Seth can see me, and he waves at me with a chubby little hand. This draws the first real smile from me since the day of the reaping.

Spark gives me another nudge, and I have to tell my feet not to run to greet my brother, because I'm uselessly clumsy, and I don't want to trip over my own feet in front of all these cameras. As soon as I reach them I hold my arms out to take Seth and dad slides him into my grasp with a smile. I clutch him tightly, and he exclaims, "Ryla! I saw you on the TV." I shoot my parents an annoyed glance, they let him watch the Hunger Games? "Don't worry," my dad reassures me, "just the interviews."

I nod, this makes me feel slightly better, and my mum pulls me into her arms, crushing Seth between us. I squirm to get free; I've never really been a touchy-feely person and I can feel her tears dripping onto me. I don't need this right now. "I thought I'd never see you again," she chokes out, water now streaming down her cheeks. I glance at her, feeling slightly uncomfortable. "Well," I say brightly, "here I am..."

"That's right," my dad tells me excitedly, "you really showed them!" He tries to pump my hand but I flinch away from him awkwardly. All I can think is that his behaviour is so inappropriate. I don't want to be happy or excited about my victory, because it's so wrong. My mum is still crying almost hysterically and I dump Seth into her arms, vaguely hoping that maybe he can cheer her up and then I scan the crowd for my friends. Instead I spot Chaff and Seeder, previous victors who were unfortunately not selected to mentor this year. So I had been stuck with Spark. Ok, so maybe Chaff wouldn't have been much better, but Seeder seems fairly normally, as far as victors go. She shoots me a small smile as she sees me watching them and Chaff blows a kiss in my direction. I roll my eyes and keep looking for my friends.

My eyes land on them and I shove my way through the crowd to greet them. But then I notice that someone's missing. "Where's Tal?" I demand as I reach them. This wasn't exactly the first thing I had planned on saying to them when I returned, but I can't help it. Tallulah has been my best friend ever since she pushed me into the mud on our first day of school. I had chucked a glob of it back into her face and the friendship had just stuck. Both Betsy and Marla glance at me slightly uncomfortably. I feel a twinge of annoyance about the fact that they don't even seem pleased to see me. "Is she with her family?" I ask in confusion, wheeling my head around to look for her. "She's not here," Marla says bluntly.

"Why?"

"Come on, you know why Ryla," Betsy says, without a trace of sympathy in her voice.

Of course I know why. Tallulah despises the Games. She absolutely hates death, and she always says that the victors are disgusting because they were prepared to play the Games, and kill others to ensure their own survival. But I hadn't considered that she would feel the same way about me when I returned. I had been avoiding thinking about my homecoming precisely for this reason.

"So, what?" I ask them dully, "She's not coming to the meal tonight either?"

They just shake their heads. From the glance they share with one another I highly doubt that I'll be seeing them there either. I shrug and mumble, "I should be getting back to my family."

* * *

_Some homecoming, _I think bitterly as I tug a dress down over my head in preparation for dinner at the mayor's house. It's a horrible green silky thing that makes me feel like I'm wearing nothing at all. I pull at the bottom, trying to make it longer than it actually is. Cleo always seems to have such a problem with the length of skirts. Maybe she runs out of material so is unable to make them long enough...

I hadn't said a single word to my parents as we walked back to the house. Partly because my mum had still been crying, and I still had no idea what I was supposed to say to her. But partly because I had still been fuming about Tal. I had spotted her family in amongst the crowd and her mum had thrown me what I think was supposed to be a sympathetic look. I'm beyond caring at this point; I only have to make it through a few more hours and then I can crash out and go to sleep. Tiredness is beginning to catch up with me again and I look ruefully in the mirror at the bags under my eyes. "RYLA!" I grin as Seth yells up the stairs to me.

"Coming!" I shout back just as loudly. I know I'm being lazy because I haven't bothered doing anything to my hair, and I just swept the tiniest bit of make-up across my face, but I'm eating with family and friends who have seen me looking my worst plenty of times before. Not least of all while I was in the arena.

I grin as I arrive downstairs and take in Seth's neatly combed hair and his furious scowl. I swoop down and pick him up, and he wriggles in my arms. "I don't like it," he tells me grumpily. I ignore him and just plant a kiss on his forehead, making him squirm even more. "Eew, gross," he tells me.

"Sorry Sethy," I say lightly and I set him down, taking his hand and dragging him out of the door following our parents.

I can't quite take in the fact that I'm really home, and my eyes flicker over my surroundings, taking in the vast maze of streets that wind through the District. At the moment we live right on the edge of the houses, as far away as it's possible to live from the central square. Of course, this will change once I am given a new house because then it will only be around a ten minute walk.

* * *

The dinner table at the Mayor's house is packed full of people. I am given the position of head of the table, while the Mayor sits opposite me, right down at the other end. I am surrounded by family, not just my parents and Seth, but also aunties, uncles and cousins. Spark, Chaff, Seeder, and Marko's mentor Jale sit near the middle of the table along with a gaggle of people. Some who I vaguely recognise from school or just from around the District, but none who I know very well at all. I guess after my friends had refused to come they had to fill the table with someone, or it would just have seemed tragic.

After a few minutes of small talk I choose to take myself out of the conversation, and instead amuse myself by examining the wallpaper. I decide that maybe if I sit there with a vacant expression on my face they will all leave me alone because I'm so tired and so I have no energy to reply to any questions they might have. Nor do I really want to answer their questions because I can imagine what they will be about. The Games; everyone's favourite topic of discussion with me. Even though I do try to block out their words I hear 'arena' and 'Kloe' mentioned several times. This just strengthens my decision to spend the whole meal in complete silence.

Silence is much easier.

_**Please review. :)**_


	7. Chapter 7

So, here I am, standing alone and surrounded by a lifetime's worth of memories and belongings. The cardboard boxes are piled around the room, leaning haphazardly against one another and I sigh. This is it, this is me, and I fit into ten crushed boxes.

It's the day after dinner at the mayor's house and it is moving day. I've seen people in the district moving house before. Maybe someone has been given a promotion and they get the chance to buy a bigger house, one that actually has enough space to contain their family. Or, more likely, someone has lost their job and they're forced to relocate somewhere smaller, and somewhere with more damp and mould. Or somewhere 'beneath the stars,' as being homeless is optimistically known by most members of District 11.

My point is that moving days are normally loud, chaotic and filled with screaming children who don't want to leave their old house. I don't have any of this to worry about, because my family aren't coming with me. I can't say that I blame them for their decision really. After all, we barely said two words to each other throughout the whole of yesterday's 'celebrations,' and then I woke everyone up screaming blue bloody murder because Kloe had been back in my nightmares. But I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt, _"You're an adult now Ryla, and you should have a house all to yourself. Enjoy your independence." _Independence isn't the word I would use, loneliness is more apt.

I shake myself and look at the boxes for a few moments. I'm being very unproductive I know, because I don't really know where to start. This house has almost twenty rooms, and I have enough stuff for just one room. So I'm not sure whether to just keep it all in one and then spend most of my time in that room, or to spread it out, very thinly, making my house look very tragic and depressing. I decide that I don't have enough time to deal with this right now because, to make this day even more fantastic... Marko's funeral is this afternoon. And of course, I have to go. His mother personally asked me to, and I didn't have the heart to turn her down. But I'm not sure what she expects from me. If I'm brutally honest we barely even said three sentences to one another; all I know about Marko is that he was a sweet, if slightly coarse, skinny little boy who should've had someone to protect him. And I regret it with all my heart that I wasn't strong enough to have been able to offer him that protection.

I head back downstairs into the kitchen; fully equipped with all the latest mod-cons, and completely soulless of course. I used to like cooking back home, surrounded by our old, tattered recipe books but I get the feeling that it won't be the same here, surrounded by stainless steel and plastic tiles. Instead of boiling water in a pan to make my tea like I used to do, I now just have to flick a switch on the kettle. I take my one very lonely looking cup from the sideboard and place it beside the kettle, waiting for it to finish boiling.

Just as there's a click to let me know that it's done there's a rap at my door. I sigh and wander through the kitchen, trying to remember the location of the door in this winding maze of rooms that I now have to call my home. Luckily, I've remembered correctly, and I swing the door open and come face to face with olive skin and black hair. Seeder; she smiles at me gently, clutching a plate covered with a piece of red and white checked cloth. "I didn't think you'd have time to eat before the funeral," she says softly, "so I thought I'd bring you something."

I hold my hands out to take the plate from her, and murmur, "Thanks." I hadn't even been thinking about food; my stomach doesn't seem to have been very connected to my brain recently.

"Well, if you need to talk then you know where I am," Seeder tells me and she starts to hold out her arms like she wants to hug me. So of course I panic, shoot her a quick smile and shut the door. It takes me several moments before I realise how rude I must just have seemed and so I shove the door back open and stick my head so I can glance up the street. She must be faster than she looks because she's disappeared from view, and I actually have no idea where her house is, so it might be hard for me to talk to her if I need to... All these houses look identical, and I made no effort to ask the other victors where they were living. In fact, I made no effort to ask them anything at all last night, because even though I'm now one of them, they still scare me. Pathetic, I know.

* * *

I keep shooting panicked glances at the clock because the hour of the funeral is drawing nearer and I still have no idea what I'm going to wear. It seems such a stupid and trivial thing to be worrying about but it stops me from worrying about the actual process of the funeral so I keep obsessing over it. The thing is, the clothes that Cleo sent home with me are all ridiculously bright and made to be worn in the Capitol, not to a funeral. It also doesn't hope that I haven't started unpacking and so all my clothes are piled at the bottom of boxes and I swear some of them have gone missing in the move.

Argh, I never thought it would be this hard to locate an item of black clothing. I claw through my clothes almost desperately: red silk and purple velvet, bundles of emerald ribbons – I swear in frustration. Who does Cleo think I am? These aren't normal people's clothes, these are clothes you wear when you want everyone to look at you. I end up flinging a flimsy pink dress against the wall because it's so hideous and I yell in excitement as I see what the vile garment was hiding. It's something black, and fairly austere looking which is a bit of an achievement for Cleo. The clock tells me I have about twenty minutes so I quickly change into the dress, shoot a cursory peek into the mirror nailed to the wall in the hallway and then slam the door shut behind me.

I refuse to run, partly because of my clumsiness, but mainly because I have no desire to arrive at a funeral red faced and out of breath.

* * *

I keep my promise to myself, and don't run at all. But this of course means that I'm very nearly late. The funeral is being held in the main square and I have to suppress a gasp as I see how packed the place is. I guess this is the only way that we can really speak out against the Games. We can dress in black, and mourn the death of an innocent child who need never have died. We can weep, and sob and show solidarity. And that's not something that happens often in this District. You can only afford to worry about yourself and your family or you'd just be worried all the time. As I push my way into the crowd I notice that there's a severe lack of men and my stomach turns as I realise that the Peacekeepers have obviously refused to give anyone the day off for the funeral. There will probably be serious punishments for anyone who does actually attend, and I wonder whether Marko's father will be risking it. Because family or not, I know that the same rules will apply to everyone.

I shove through the throng because I want to be close to the front. I feel this is the last respect I can give to Marko – to be near enough to see his body when it starts to burn.

A deathly hush suddenly falls upon the crowd and Marko's mother walks onto the raised platform. She is obviously the one who has been chosen to read the last respects. She starts to speak, and tells us about her sweet little boy who used to hug her, and his infectious laugh that always made her smile. She tells us about the time he found a dying bird and insisted that she make it better. She recounts the story of Marko's sixth birthday when they had saved up to make a cake, and he made everyone blow the candles out with him because he didn't want anyone to be left out. I think of my own memories of Marko; the way he kept making jokes because he was so nervous and he didn't want to give into the fear. I remember how he cried openly at the interview when he spoke about his family. If I close my eyes then I can see the earnestness in his as he wished me good luck the morning before we entered the arena.

He had tripped; they had shown his death in the video and I had seen him trip. One stupid loose rock and he had fallen. Only to be trapped by a Career and stabbed ruthlessly with a spear. That's all it had taken for Marko Vallier to die, or rather, for him to be needlessly murdered.

His mother lights the torch and places it gently onto the pyre. She kisses his forehead just as gently and then pulls away as the flames start to spread across the wood. _Marko, _people start whispering his name and I want to turn away as his mother falls to her knees before his body. I feel like I'm intruding on her grief.

It's the sight of the flames licking his body that finally starts me crying. Tears roll slowly down my cheeks and I make no effort to wipe them away, because what's the point? I turn my head to find his family and find his father to be absent. The Peacekeepers have caused a man to miss the funeral of his own son because he knows that if his disobedience caused his death, then he could cause the deaths of even more of his children.

Tears streaming down my face I scan his family. It's big; three younger sisters who are clutching on another, crying and confused. They're too young to really understand what's happening, but they are watching their own mother sobbing and it's made them cry too. Marko mentioned an older brother as well and as I locate him crouched behind his sisters his dark eyes glance up and meet mine.

Even from this distance I can read the pain in them. But more than that, I see fury, and I know it's aimed at me.

* * *

**Thanks for the reviews :) I'd love some more, hint hint..!**


	8. Chapter 8

The dark eyed boy is in my nightmares that night.

_Inevitably the moment I close my eyes I find myself back in the arena, in the cave where I first met Kloe. I panic, pulling my arms tightly around my chest because I really don't need another dream about her, not tonight. But the dream doesn't feel like one I've had before, and my nightmares have become so damn repetitive that they're actually beginning to become tedious. But this dream is different._

_I hear footsteps coming from behind me and I wheel round in terror, my eyes flickering wildly around the cave as I try to locate the source of the sound. "Hello?" Stupid, I tell myself, you're so stupid. _

"_Ryla?" _

_Now I'm confused as hell, because this is Marko's voice._

"_Marko?" I reply, my voice rising in astonishment. "What are you doing here?" I slap my palm against my forehead – don't talk to him Ryla, you idiot. In the arena you have to treat everyone as if they were an enemy, even if they do come from your district._

"_Ryla?" His voice is drawing closer to where I'm standing and I start taking hesitant steps backwards. I don't like the fact that he keeps advancing and one glance down at my belt tells me that I have no weapons and so I'm completely at his mercy. I back up so far that my back crunches against the cave wall and I stiffen because now all I can do is wait for Marko to come round the corner._

_An arm carrying a lamp is the first part of his body to enter into my line of vision. The light flickers, throwing odd shapes onto the cave walls. Huge, dark shadows that make me flinch in the belief that someone else is in the cave – but then I recognise the shapes for what they actually are; the twisted rocks that protrude out from the walls of the cave. _

_A foot is what I spot next, covered in a sturdy leather boot just like the ones I am wearing. Slowly the rest of him comes into view and my jaw drops as the light illuminates his face._

_Because it's not Marko after all, it's his brother._

_His face is filled with pure hate; his eyes burn with anger and his free hand hangs clenched stiffly by his side. I press myself back against the wall, telling myself that if I stay still enough that maybe he won't spot me. Of course, this is stupid, because he's already seen me, this is the reason why he looks so furious. I open my mouth, but then snap it shut again. Because what do I say? Try to defend my actions and explain that I would've been useless anyway? Or do I just apologise for not helping his brother? I doubt either of these actions would make any difference and as his lips curl upwards into a smirk I see that I was right. Every part of him is tensed with revulsion – this isn't the kind of anger than can be wiped away with a simple apology._

"_You killed my brother," he tells me, his cheeks flushed with excitement as he realises that revenge is near._

_And the odd thing? I don't even resent him for it, because I can understand why he would blame me. Maybe I blame myself a little bit too. So I feel my head nod in agreement with his words, "I didn't mean to, but it's still my fault." I should have helped him, I think sadly. _

"_Right," he says sharply, "It is your fault." He moves quicker than I would've thought possible and his hands snap around my neck. I don't struggle like I had with the boy from District 5 because in my head I know I deserve the pain._

_He squeezes more firmly and I can't breathe. Or maybe it's more that I don't want to breathe. _

I wake with a start, my heart pounding painfully in my chest and my limbs soaked in sweat. The bedcover has twisted round my legs and I kick it off in a panic. This wasn't like my other nightmares; the other times I had simply had a flashback from the arena and as scary as it had been, at least when I had woken up I was able to tell myself that it was over and that I was safe now. But this was different; because the hatred in his eyes as his fingers had closed around my throat had mirrored the look he had cast in my direction during the funeral. This was my subconscious telling me that he probably does blame me for the death of his brother. I swear in frustration and run a shaking hand through my hair. I had assumed that all of the families who would hate me would be safely separated from me in their various districts. But if the look on Marko's brother's face had been anything to go by, then this clearly wasn't the case.

I push myself out of the bed because I do not want another nightmare tonight. What scared me just as much as the expression on his face had been the fact that I had just given up. When I had been reaped, the one thing I had promised myself was that I would never give up, and yet in the dream I had just stopped breathing. A shudder passes through me and I tell myself to stop thinking so morbidly.

I decided yesterday that if Tallulah wasn't going to talk to me, then I would just have to write her a note and now seems as good a time as any to start writing it.

* * *

It turns out that tiredness and anger aren't a great combination when it comes to writing a letter. My eyes kept blurring over and my lids kept threatening to drop shut while I was writing. Add to the fact that I'm so pissed off with Tallulah for not coming to greet me, I'm having quite a difficult time with this. I scan back over what I've already written, trying to see if there's anything that I might be able to salvage.

_Tallulah, I understand why you didn't come to see me when I arrived, but I was hoping that - _

_I'm sorry about what - _

_Why didn't you come to greet me when I arrived? I know how you feel about the Games, but I still - _

_Just let me explain why - _

_Why - _

Nope, five hours of constantly writing and I have absolutely nothing that I could actually ever send to her. Any one of these letters would probably just make her even angrier with me. I've tried various approaches: profusely apologetic, explanative and blunt, sad and searching for sympathy, angry. None of them are what I need. If I'm honest, what I really need is an hour with her, just to explain exactly what happened. I think that's the real problem – a letter just feels too impersonal and I've always had trouble spilling my feelings onto a piece of paper. I need to see the person's face so that I can judge their reactions and their expressions. But I'm in a bit of a vicious circle, because I know that Tal doesn't want to see me which was why I was writing the letter in the first place. I slap my palm down against the table in annoyance and it scatters my papers. Sending some of them floating down onto the floor and I sigh as I bend down to pick them up. As I read the various rambling sentences I make a decision and pile all of the pieces together, fold them up and shove them all into the envelope I had waiting for my finished letter. Maybe a finished letter isn't what she needs to see right now. These sentences definitely show how much time I spent trying to decide what to say, and so I have to hope this emotion will be enough for her because I don't have any words left in me to send. I stick the envelope down and cross my fingers as I stare at it. I have no idea what else I should do.

I decide that I need to be productive today because sitting around here moping is hardly going to do me any good. But deciding what I should actually do poses a different problem. I guess I could go and visit my family but the way in which we said goodbye yesterday morning suggests to me that they won't be that keen to see me. I need to deliver the letter to Tallulah at some point but that will only involve shoving it through her door and then darting away as fast as possible before she sees me. I need something that will take up a good portion of the day and something that will tire me out as well. My eyes roam around the kitchen and fall on the plate that Seeder had brought over yesterday. The cloth is still draped over the top of the plate and so I lean over and pull it off. It's a plate of cakes; they do look quite appetising actually, but my stomach turns at the thought of eating them. I could never enjoy them knowing that everywhere else in the district people were starving hungry. _Ding; _that's when I get the light bulb of an idea – I've been given more than enough money for myself and I don't need it; delivering food throughout the district will certainly be time consuming and I have no doubt that it will wear me out. Plus, it will give me the chance to deliver my letter.

I take Seeder's cakes with me when I go, because I'm sure I'll be able to find some kids who'll be happy enough to devour them for me, and head into the main square to stock up on supplies.

* * *

I've had several disasters today; people tend to treat someone giving them free food with suspicion. But I started off in my old neighbourhood which made it slightly easier because people understand I'm not giving them charity; because I grew up in their position – hollow stomach that never felt full, watching little children play in the streets with their bones protruding and laughter on their sunken faces. The only different is that before I could never do anything about it, and while I'm not going to kid myself into thinking that I'll make much of a different, I need to do something and I certainly can't sit around at home all day, knowing that the streets are filled with these starving little kids.

It's nearing the end of the day now; the sun is beginning to sink behind the hills and the strange orange light illuminates the twisting streets. I only have one loaf of bread and a few roots left, so I head for the last door on the street and bang my fist against the rotting wood. It swings open and I'm staring into a face I recognise.

"Mrs Vallier," I manage to choke out. Her hair is hanging limply around her face and she still has the black armband wrapped around her wrist.

"Ryla?" She watches me with confused, uncertain eyes and I panic. Will she see this as an insult? The girl who neglected to help her son trying to make amends with one loaf of bread and a couple of turnips.

"I..." _Speak, _I command myself: _you can't just stand here staring like a moron. SPEAK!_

So I start talking, inventing like crazy, "Umm, you see, me and Marko sort of made a pact during the Games," I see her face twist with pain – _double whammy, _I think sarcastically, _you managed to mention her dead son and the Hunger Games in one sentence. _"Umm, and we promised that if either of us won, then we would make sure the other one's family had enough to eat and stuff."

She rolls her eyes, "Yeah, that sounds like Marko." _Thank God._

"Would you like to come in?" She says, sweeping her hand behind her to show that I'm welcome to enter.

"I've actually got to-"

She's not having any of my excuses and takes my hand, practically dragging me into the house. It always amazes me how alike all of our houses appear to be. This could be my old home, right down to the same furniture.

I put my bag down onto the table, and pull out the remaining food. "I know it's not much, but I got sidetracked on my way over here."

She just shakes her head and smiles softly, an expression that completely transforms her face and makes her seem so much younger. "Thank you. If you had brought any more then I don't think I would've been able to take it." Here it is, this ridiculous District 11 pride that compels people to turn down food even in the face of starvation.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'd love to, but I should get going. I need to-"

She cuts me off again, "You bring over some food, and the least I can do is make you some tea." She throws a quick glance in the direction of the clock, "I'm afraid you can't stay too long though, because I have to start making dinner." There's an anxious expression on her face that doesn't quite match up to her words.

I've just taken a seat at the table when there's a flurry of footsteps on the stairs and a voice tells out, "Mum! Sylvie's been sick ag-" The yell is suddenly cut off, and I have a good feeling why. I twist my head around and see the dark eyed boy staring at me. His eyes flicker between me and his mother before he demands, "What is _she _doing here?" I have to suppress a shudder as I remember my dream; he seems almost angry in reality as he had done in my head.

"Oska," his mother admonishes, "she brought round some food."

"We don't need food," he snaps in annoyance.

"Oh really? We both know that your father's salary isn't enough to feed this whole family."

"I could help if you'd let me work longer shifts at the market. I don't know what you think might-"

"Ok, that's enough. We have a guest."

"What are you doing here?" This is directed at me and I have to work up some moisture in my mouth before I can reply, because his furious expression and harsh tones had me frozen in terror and reliving my nightmare.

"Me and Marko made a pact," I mutter, lowering my head so that I don't have to look him in the eyes, "we promised to each give the other's family food if we won."

He raises his eyebrows at this, "It didn't look like you guys were too close in the arena. I doubt Marko would make an agreement like that with someone he didn't even know."

_Damn it, _I think, _why couldn't you just buy it like your mother?_

He opens his mouth and I panic because what if it's some question about Marko that I'm unable to answer. But I'm saved by a knock at the door. Mrs Vallier meets her sons eyes in terror, "He's early."

I glance between them in confusion, "What..?"

"You have to go out the back," she tells me, fear etched clearly into the lines on her face, "I don't what my husband will do if he sees you."


	9. Chapter 9

_Woah, it's been a while. I had slight writer's block, but I think I've recovered now! Thanks to everyone who has already reviewed :) I appreciate it a lot._

_

* * *

_My brain can't process the reason why she's suddenly so afraid. Why her eyes are darting around the room rapidly; full of fear and anxiety. Another bang at the door makes me jump violently because an eerie silence has settled over the room and the knocking sounds loud and intrusive in the tiny space.

"I'll go and let him in," Oska says impatiently; he doesn't seem scared like his mother, only angry, "and you just get rid of her, ok?"

Mrs Vallier's eyes suddenly start to focus again, rather than wheeling madly around the room. If I was being honest, it had seemed like she had been searching for an escape route for herself, and not just for me. "Go," she waves her son towards the front door, and then casts an apologetic glance in my direction, "I'm sorry about this," she starts babbling as she pushes me towards the backdoor, "you came round to do a nice thing for us, and here I am forcing you out the back like a criminal."

I laugh awkwardly at her words, not sure if she means them to be a joke or not, but I have to do something to break the tension that's been rising ever since her husband knocked at the door, and unfortunately laughter is my go-to defence mechanism in tricky circumstances. This is what had encouraged the Careers to give me the not so imaginative nickname of 'Ryla the smiler," because they hadn't liked the fact I laughed a couple of times during training. Ok, so maybe it had been a mistake to laugh when the guy from District 1 had ended up flat on his back while trying to show off his 'unreal' (his words not mine) sword manoeuvres. But he had looked ridiculous. What's that saying, pride comes before a fall?

I force myself back to the present as I become aware of the fact that Mrs Vallier is screaming at me to move. I swear under my breath as I realise that I've just been standing in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for her husband, who clearly holds some kind of vendetta against me, to come and find me in his own house. _Yeah, great move Ryla, now is hardly the time to be daydreaming. _

I shove against the door as it sticks slightly and it's just banged open when I hear footsteps moving along the hallway towards the kitchen door. "Just wait outside," Mrs Vallier hisses at me, "stay out of sight and I'll let you go back through the house once he's gone upstairs." With this, she slams the door shut and I hear the key click in the lock. My heart hammers in my chest as I duck down against the side of the house. _Hellfire, that was close._ I can hear muffled voices coming from the kitchen, which means that I had literally made it outside with just seconds to spare. I rest my back against the wall, and let my body slump down to the floor; spending the whole day on my feet has definitely taken its toll on me as I can feel a dull ache in my calves and my feet.

Although there's a part of me which feels guilty for eavesdropping, I let myself tune back into their conversation. Mrs Vallier is warbling away about her day, telling her husband how several of her neighbours dropped by to check that she was alright. When this elicits no response from him she moves onto explaining how Sylvie hasn't been feeling very well. I remember how Oska had said that she had been sick when he had come running down the stairs; the fact that he had been running makes me feel uneasy. After all, he wouldn't have been panicking so much if it hadn't been that serious. I remember the three little girls from the funeral – three dark eyed, pale little creatures who huddle together for comfort in the face of their family's loss. I make a mental note to try and bring them some medicine at some point, though I highly doubt that they'll actually accept it.

"Where did that food come from?" a low male voice suddenly barks out, and I start slightly, realising that I had left my bag of food on the table.

"I went down to the grocers earlier," I hear her tell him, she's not quite masking her anxiety, and if I can tell it's there, then no doubt her husband can as well.

There's a pause during which I dig my nails into the palms of my hands in an attempt to distract myself. I wince slightly as a sharp pain lances through me when I break through the skin and a drop of blood trickles out from the crescent shaped wound on my hand. I watch with vague interest as the bead of blood slides down towards my wrist.

A husky tone brings me back to my senses, "I thought we were out of money for this month. You said you were waiting to go shopping until after my next pay cheque came in."

_Damn it, talk about bad timing. _At any other time of the month a loaf of bread and three turnips certainly wouldn't be enough to invoke suspicion. But it's the monthly payday the day after tomorrow, and families tend to struggle during the couple of days before.

"I found a tiny bit left over. I thought it was worth buying something to make Sylvie soup with." I wonder if Mrs Vallier is a good enough liar to get her husband to believe in what she's saying.

"Really? Because I heard that damn victor has been going round all day with a bag of food. Thinking she's better than everyone else clearly," shit, I can hear the fury in his voice as he mentions me. I wonder how he found out about that. It looks like my 'genius' plan has become a complete failure. "This food wouldn't happen to be from her, would it?" There's an icy tone to his voice that makes me shudder with fear. It's the barely suppressed anger that I came to know so well from watching the Careers in training, and during their interview. Constantly trying to intimidate and scare, and Mr Vallier is using the exact same tactic on his wife now. Attempting to scare her into telling him the truth, and I have to admit that if I was in her position, I would probably cave.

She doesn't answer.

I clench my fists to try and distract myself from the silence.

Still no answer.

The silence stretches out again to the point where I'm about ready to jump to my feet and burst into the kitchen to tell him the truth. In my mind I picture them both standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring each other down as he waits for a confession from his wife.

"Get rid of it," he snaps. I hear footsteps moving away from the window and I guess that he's gone.

I exhale in relief as there's a click in the lock and the door is jerked open. Mrs Vallier pokes her head out, and I register her pale features and bloodshot eyes as she glances around the garden warily. I push myself upright, wincing as the ache in my legs and feet becomes an actual pain and I have to lean against the wall for a moment to regain my balance.

"I'm so sorry about that," she mutters gently, "I just don't think it would be a very good idea for him to find you in our house."

I shrug, "it's fine, it probably wasn't the best idea for me to come here anyway, so it's my fault really." _None of today was a good idea, _I think sadly to myself. I was being selfish and trying to distract myself, and in the process probably offended a lot of people. Spark is going to kill me if he finds out about this. Or perhaps _when _he finds out is more apt because Spark seems to have the uncanny ability to always know everything. It's infuriating actually.

She shakes her head without really looking at me, "Nonsense. It was..." She trails off, and I'm left standing there awkwardly as her eyes start to fill up with tears. _Oh god, please don't start thinking about Marko, because I'm so awful at comforting people, _I think desperately as she blinks rapidly in an attempt to clear her eyes.

"Mrs Vallier," I murmur, not sure what I'm actually going to say to her.

Her head jerks towards me in surprise as I speak; she had obviously forgotten that I was there. "Please, call me Fran."

"Fran," I say, "right." That's it... All I can think is that I'm such a useless person and that I wish I could think of something to comfort her. In fact, I just wish that I could think of something to _say. _My mind has gone completely blank, and it's clear from her expression that she isn't faring much better. To be fair to her though, I was the one who came round to her house, and so maybe I should be the one who is expected to make the conversation.

"Look, I'm really-" I start; maybe if I apologise then she might be able to look me in the face without crying, but she cuts me off before I can get it out.

"You should leave," she tells me, "before my husband comes back down. Oh, and I don't think it would be a very good idea for you to visit us again." _You're telling me._ I mean does she really think that I would come back to a house where one third of the people living there hate my guts. I know that I'm fairly lonely at the moment, but I'm not quite that desperate.

"Sorry," I manage to blurt out but it's not clear, even to me, whether my apology refers to Marko, or to my barging into their house.

I quickly turn my head away, so I don't have to watch her expression anymore. Every part of her is completely neutral – her mouth is set into a line and her hands swing loosely at her chest – it's only her eyes that give any indication of the pain that she's going through. Meeting her eyes makes me feel like I'm drowning; they burn with hurt, and anger. Though I know that her anger isn't really directed at me it's still hard for me to look at. I could tell her that I understand what she's going through; after all I lost someone in those Games too. But I don't think that losing someone who I knew for a couple of weeks compares to losing a son and I don't think she'd appreciate me saying it. So I don't say anything else, just let my feet carry me along the hallway and out of the door.

I force myself to keep a slow pace as I dart up the street; I'm desperate to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of that house. Of course, my desperation means that I'm not looking where I'm going and I feel a thud as I bang into someone.

"Sorry," I mutter, glancing up to meet the eyes of a distinctly angry looking, balding man, "I wasn't looking."

He just raises an eyebrow at me, and pushes past me, grumbling about me, "Bloody victors; walk round thinking they own the place."

I start as he says this, and wheel round to watch him stomp off in the opposite direction. I despise the fact that everyone now knows exactly who I am, even if I have never even seen them before. I turn in the direction for the Victor's Village but then remember my note (or notes) for Tallulah. _Damn it, _all I really want to do is go home, and try to forget about this nightmare of a day, but if I don't do it now then I might never be brave enough to do it. So I walk in the direction of the main square in town; her house lies on one of the streets that twists away from the plaza, and I hope fervently that I don't run into anyone I know.


	10. Chapter 10

For some reason, ever since I returned from the Capitol I get the oddest feeling whenever I walk into the centre of town. It's the sensation that I don't belong here anymore, and when I see the crowds milling about the square, or wandering into shops, I guess it just becomes even more apparent how isolated I have become.

The moment I set foot into a crowded area I can feel the eyes of every single person lingering upon me, and I wonder how the other victors have coped with this for so long. After all, it's not even been a week since I returned and I'm already sick of it. Take that man who I accidentally walked into earlier; the prejudices upon his tongue were clear. He didn't like me just because I was a victor. I guess it would be hypocritical of me to judge people for doing this, after all, before I treated the victors the exact same way. Like they were lepers – something to be feared and avoided. But I'd never really realised how lonely that would have made them feel. Now that I'm on the receiving end of this discrimination, I'm disgusted at my past behaviour.

This is why I cast a furtive glance around before I step into the square, because as hard as it is to squirm under the cold glances of strangers who I've never had anything to do with, I'm suspecting it will be ten times as hard to take this from someone I actually know. Especially after experiencing Betsy and Marla's greeting the other day. Neither of them has them have tried to make contact with me since, and I'm certainly not going to try to force my company upon them. Still, I can't deny that trying to avoid everyone that I used to know, in a past life, is unbearably lonely. But it's certainly easier.

After my inspection of the square assures me that there's no familiar face among the masses I suck in a deep breath of air, and launch myself into the onslaught of scathing glances and derisive comments.

It's late in the day now; the sun a low ball of fire in the sky, casting an eerie orange glow across the white rooftops of the houses of the few, more prestigious members of our district. The light doesn't discriminate, illuminating both the faded whitewash of the Justice Building, and the highly polished wood of the gallows which takes prime position within the square. I shield my eyes as the beams of light hit them and I duck my head as I'm forced to pass beneath the gallows. I shudder as a soft breath whispers through the buildings and shakes the ropes, just slightly. It's always here; left as a reminder that nothing goes unpunished in District 11. Of course, personally I would've thought that the constant stream of Peacekeepers threading through the streets and make their presence known by threatening anyone who even dares to throw a glance in their direction, would have been enough to remind us of that.

My feet walk out the familiar path to Tallulah's house, obviously remembering the countless times I've walked this route before; the detour to her house to collect her before school, despite the fact that it was completely out of my way or running along this path if I had news to tell her. A smile tries to tug my lips upwards as I can almost see the two of us, prancing around like idiots. Of course, that had been when we were much younger; over the past few years there's been little cause for us to dance around like overjoyed fools.

Take a left at the chipped fountain; the one piece of grandeur in the whole of District 11. I glance through the stagnant water to the bottom of the fountain. There's a thin layer of copper coins lying there; this has always amused me. Despite the fact that money is often so short around here and people can rarely scrape together enough food to keep them going, people are still prepared to waste money on a wish. It's a mentality that I still find hard to comprehend. But I dig my hand into my pocket, knowing that I still have a few spare coins left. I find them clinking against one another and I slide them out. On opening my clenched palm I see I have three coppers left. That equals three wishes, right?

_I wish..._

_I wish Ryla would forgive me._

_I wish everyone would stop staring at me like I'm some kind of outcast. Even though I suppose I am now._

_But, do you know what I really wish? I wish that I could just go back in time, and-_

"Ryla?" A shocked voice comes from behind me. Even behind its cold tones, it's one that I will always recognise. This is a voice that I've grown up hearing.

I spin round, and meet the eyes of the one person that I was especially dreading running in to. I reach a hand into my pocket to reassure myself that my notes are still lying there and relief washes over me as my fingertips brush against paper.

"Tallulah?" I don't know what I'm supposed to say to her, because the sight of her in front of me sends so many different emotions rushing through my body. The cold anger in her hazel eyes makes my blood burn and protest about the fact that she's so mad at me. After all, it's hardly my fault and anger sparks within me. But at the same time, the lank, greasy way that her tawny hair hangs around her face, the dark shadows under her eyes and her pale waxy complexions turns my sudden anger to compassion, and I feel the need to comfort her. She's holding herself so differently; no longer the confident, almost arrogant stance I'm used to seeing from her. Instead her shoulders slump forward, and her eyes stay trained on the ground rather than rising to meet my own.

"What are you doing here?" The brief notes of shock that I heard within her voice moments earlier have given way to fury, and I cringe as her eyes glint dangerously. I've seen this look many times on her face before, but never has it been aimed at me.

"You never came to see me," I demand, and I sigh as I can hear the self-pity within my voice. This wasn't how I'd wanted to act in front of her. But seeing her now reminds me just how much I've missed her, and how much I could have used her company these past few days.

"What did you expect?" she asks scathingly, "after what I saw on the screen... Did you actually believe that I might be standing there waiting for you? Did you want me to act like nothing had happened? You know me too well for that Ryla."

My head darts around anxiously, making sure that no one is listening in to our discussion. Or rather, argument.

I can't even meet her in the eyes; hell, I'd never thought that I would feel this awkward and uncomfortable with Tallulah. We've been friends for 12 years, but I guess a lot has changed these past few weeks. I mean, I know that I don't feel like myself anymore, and judging from her drastically changed demeanour, I guess that she feels the exact same way. Another reason to mourn what I did in that arena – it's hurt her too.

"I thought..." I trail off, because what had I been expecting? That she would change her beliefs just for me. No, that's never been Tallulah's style

She curls her lip at me, and a flash of white hot anger surges through me, "You could've tried," I hiss, hating her because she despises me for all the reasons that I now despise myself. "You could at least have explained to me in person, rather than letting me hear from Betsy and Marla that you weren't coming." This rushes out of me in huge gust of air, but she just shrugs. Suppressing any emotions she might be feeling from showing on her face. Somehow this carefully blank expression is even worse than her anger had been. No emotion suggests that she doesn't even care about me anymore. Her next words match this expression perfectly.

"You know what Ryla, I don't think I even care anymore. I'm not having this argument with you. Because you know how it would be the moment you won. So, just deal with it."

"Deal with it?" I say venomously, " I can't deal with it. Especially when the people I care about just turn their backs on me. You know that if this had been the other way round, that I would have done anything to help you. I wouldn't have turned away from you." I'm so mad that she's just given up on me like this. No second chances. She's really willing to just erase 12 years of friendship. 12 years of being so close that we were practically sisters. I helped her out when her mum lost her job, and she supported me when Seth got so sick that even the doctor said he didn't have a chance. But all that's over just because she's determined to hold on to some stupid prejudice. Our friendship should mean more to her than this, and she certainly shouldn't be acting like all those strangers; judging me when they don't even know me.

"You're supposed to understand!" I suddenly burst out, but she just glances at me.

"Well I can't."

She turns away from me with one fluid movement and before I'm really aware of what I'm doing I yank the letters out of my pocket, and fling the envelope in her direction. The packet explodes at her feet, sending sheets of paper fluttering into the air. She comes to an abrupt halt, and spins around, her eyes blazing furiously as she takes in the paper. She opens her mouth; probably just to yell at me some more, but this time it's me who turns away from her. I want to be the one to win this argument, and something tells me that the first person to walk away will be declared the victor. She set the rules, so I'm just playing along.

* * *

I screech to a halt as I arrive back at the Victor's Village and see a distinctive shadow patrolling around my doorstep. My stomach clenches as I take in the intimidating figure that is Spark. I can tell by his gait that he is steaming about something. Seeing as he's waiting for me, it can only really be about one thing. I'm assuming that rumours about how I spent my day have reached his ears. It was only a few days ago that I leaned against my kitchen wall while he lectured me about exactly this...

"_District 11 is a massive place, we both know that," he's far too close to me as he tells me this and I feel distinctly uncomfortable. Especially seeing as I think he must have eaten something garlicky at lunch and the odour is making my stomach churn._

_He's waiting for something. Oh, right, he wants a response, I realise, "I know that," I say impatiently, did he just come round to give me a geography lesson? _

_His dark eyes hold mine sternly; I don't dare to look away as he utters his next sentence, "You can't help everyone, ok? You might feel guilty that you have more money than other people, but if you tried, then it would be spread too thinly, and you wouldn't be doing anyone any good. It's best to just leave them to their devices." His eyes are practically drilling into me, and I'm fully aware that he's watching to make sure that his message sinks in. _

_I just nod my head jerkily. There's no way I'm going along with that, I think as he watches me._

He suddenly spots me, and makes a beeline for me. I'm rooted to the spot in terror, despite the fact that he won his Games more than twenty years ago, he's still the same terrifying physical specimen that he was when he was crowned. And I definitely don't like the fact that he's barrelling towards me with that look on his face. It's times like this when I can understand completely why he won.

"What's this I've heard about you prancing round the District all day, giving out loaves of bread?" He demands as he reaches me, his face distorted in anger.

"Don't worry," I tell him dully, thinking back to the fury on Ryla's face and the terror I felt as I crouched out of sight, hiding from Mr Vallier, "I won't do it again."

He takes one look at me face, and amazingly I think his expression softens, just for an instant though and only the tiniest bit. Still, maybe Spark isn't the steel man I've been picturing him to be. It doesn't matter though, because I know he's gearing up for another lecture, and I'm really not in the mood. I shove past him, making sure to barge my shoulder into his, not caring that I'll certainly pay for that later.

* * *

That night, my conscience drags me back to the town square.

_The noise of my boots clacking against the cobbled streets stands out disconcertingly loudly in the silence of the night. _

_It's my district, and yet it's not at the same time. There's a shadowy shape looming just in the distance; my eyes blur whenever I try to look directly at it, so I know that I have no choice but to move closer to it. One thing is certain though, it definitely doesn't belong here._

_My eyes flicker wildly round, and I'm sure that I can sense shadows moving in the corner of my eye, yet every time I twist my head around I encounter nothing. _

_As you always do in a dream, I cover the distance impressively quickly and the object starts to come into focus, my heart starts to beat wildly in my chest. It looks familiar._

_Far too familiar._

_There's a strange clunking noise, and I'm forced to throw my arm up to shield my eyes as a piercingly bright light suddenly fills the surrounding area. _

_Blinkingly, I emerge from the safety of my arm which had been keeping me blindfolded and my eyes follow the contours of a familiar golden shape. The cornucopia._

_There's a rustle nearby, and I jump violently. If there's a cornucopia here then it can only mean that I've been thrown into another arena. One which looks convincingly like District 11. If I'm in an arena then the only other people here are tributes; this means that this rustling noise signals danger._

_The light glints off a familiar looking tawny head; Tallulah. My brain whirls in confusion, because there can't be two female tributes from the same district. _

_As she rises, her eyes catch sight of me and she holds up a knife in front of her. I stiffen, but I understand; in the arena, friendship means nothing anymore and you only worry about protecting yourself. I won't be offended if she tries to kill me._

_But the knife isn't moving in my direction. She whispers, "I refuse to play your Game," as the knife glides closer to her throat. I understand what she's planning to do a split second before she actually does it. The noise of the knife against her flesh, and the sudden gushing of blood is deafeningly loud and penetrates the silence of the night. The scream that rips from my throat is even louder though._

The scream wrenches me out from my own consciousness and I jerk upright, the duvet constricting my waist. Tallulah's words echo within my head, _"I refuse to play your Game," _and I realise that's what I should have done.

* * *

Love to everyone who has reviewed so far :) It's very appreciated!


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